Earthrise Diary 5-10 (May 2010)
Don Diespecker
Golden, golden, the woods are golden now. The days stretch on into Indian summer, the air gone plummy with woodsmoke and windfall apples, Stradivari air.
John Jerome
(Stone Work, 1989, p. 139)
Much of this 2010 autumn has been green, gold, mild and pleasant and this has made for plenty of sunshine and temperatures allowing the older gardener types like me to sit basking sleepily outside while pretending to read and even to write. There has also been the continuing attack on Big Grass in the Cedar Grove (now interrupted by damper weather), the construction (which sounds grander than mere building) of a new defensive flood wall with old-wall stones on the river lawn, discussing a proposed book with a fellow author, the often uncomfortable writing/re-writing/editing/re-thinking of two essays and two long (fiction) stories (uncomfortable because of sundry interruptive chores and so-called Writer’s Block {a notion I scarcely believe in, normally}). Worst of all, I efficiently trapped myself in the middle of an email software difficulty (a long story which I’ll happily save you from). I’ve been wringing my hands, cringing and wincing—as one does when anything in the computer ‘goes wrong;’ things that ‘go wrong’ being a self-deceiving euphemism for (‘I messed up—AGAIN!’). Who would have thought that computer difficulties would affect so much else in one’s life? There was a time when I wrote everything by hand –let us not forget the pen and the pencil—but in the present era most of what I write is composed on the computer’s keyboard.
Nonetheless, part of the pleasures of autumn has consisted in some reading, usually in the fresh air at lunchtime. Out there, at the back of the belvedere I can keep an eye on the river and the birds. There are always plenty of books for me to read and re-read. Reading is always a matter of priorities: chores at every turn, writing, exercise and times for reading). I recently bought a BIG pb, The art of the personal essay. An anthology from the classical era to the present (ed.: Phillip Lopate) and would like nothing better than to sit down and read it right through, but can only afford brief readings…you know how it is: chores have a priority too.
Recently I was becoming so accustomed to the almost summery riverbank pleasure that I looked for further excuses to stay outside, reading and playing with stones, but on that particular afternoon and having promised myself I’d go back inside and telephone one of the mighty Telstra fixer uppers I reluctantly tore myself away from my aestivating repose and went up to the house. Just as well. While I was stoically following the directions of the Telstra guy (in the far-off Philippines) I heard the crack of either a tree or a branch breaking. Later I discovered that a deadwood branch from the old white cedar above my chairs on the belvedere had broken and fallen 15-m or so, wrecking the bleeding heart tree and scattering the chairs. There was enough Heavy Wood to have ended my career as a belvedere sitter. These things happen. It’s not possible to live amidst very big and high trees for 26 years without sometimes having to run for it or to duck for cover. Trees here, e.g., the eucalypts, whatever their charms and graces, frequently shed leaves, barks and limbs; a weighty branch falling from high above may kill the unwary. Rural or rustic older garden persons all have to run like hell if their hearing is good enough to detect trees cracking or breaking in the near vicinity of their heads—and as one practiced in this manoeuvre, I assure readers everywhere that it’s essential to develop an agility of posture so as to escape serious injury or death from above. Believe me, dear reader, running from a sitting position is the only way to go although such action generally has a deleterious effect on many parts of the anatomy; but to not instantly run is to risk being permanently erased.
While suffering the exaggerated effects of the malfunctioning email computer settings I’ve also been mining some of my archives for River Stuff. Two sources of such material are the Australian Gestalt Journal (AGJ) and The International Journal of Transpersonal Studies (IJTS). I’ve been surprised to see again and to re-read materials that I wrote less than 10 years ago because some of the writings seem to me to be so much older—perhaps an effect of my growing older by the minute.
The reason I’m waffling about these sundry distractions in an otherwise reasonably well-ordered rural life is that I’ve also been re-reading some articles in last year’s Literary Reviews (‘proof’ of how long it takes to thoroughly read certain publications because I seldom manage to read the Lit Rev so thoroughly that it’s OK to speedily pass it on to a Lit Friend). The Lit Rev always begins with an overview (‘From the Pulpit’) opinion piece that reads as a personal essay rather than an editorial and these distinctive one-pagers are generally written by a distinguished specialist UK writer, editor or publisher. One of these that I was speed reading was tilted Golden Notebooks, by Richard Davenport-Hines who discussed Somerset Maugham’s (1949) A Writer’s Notebook. The writer mentioned some of Maugham’s pithy sayings and quotes; this one surprised me: ‘to imagine is to fail; for it is the acknowledgment of defeat in the encounter with reality.’ I take the point and disagree. Maugham would surely have admitted to having used his imagination to write his stories, yet he assigns the word a pejorative meaning that it doesn’t deserve, in my opinion.
Being a poor sleeper I frequently shift realities by visualising characters in the fictional and nonfiction narratives that I’m working on. My view is that the so-called ‘stream of consciousness’ that William James wrote about is filled to a great extent with visual images that we each may access: thus, I see the scenes or actions or characters that I want to write about, i.e., I visualise these images. Sometimes I focus on the stream; sometimes the stream delivers whether I’m focused or not. That may not be much of an explanation of imagination or of imagining, but it works for me.
Consider some of these scribbles (mine) from the Australian Gestalt Journal:
“ In the early autumn the air turned warm and humid and the valley was lush and green from storm rains and thundery showers that followed the long hot summer. The river was high and grey-green and after sunrise flashes of light glinted endlessly on the surface of each new fresh running through the rapids and into the pool. In the gardens most of the tall dahlias not flattened by storms continued blooming and the night animals that ate the flowers in the dry summer stopped visiting. The scented red hybrid tea roses grew lustily inside their enclosure and flowered profusely through the wet and the rainforest creek started flowing once more. In the bleeding heart trees next to the house plump brown fruit pigeons fed on the berries, sometimes hanging upside down to reach the fruits.” (The Epistolary Earthrise) (AGJ Vol 7 2003, p7)
“Those of you who have visited Earthrise will easily imagine the place. Those who have never been here and who read my scribbles will easily imagine the place whether they want to or not. We can’t but help using our imaginations, or thinking in images, or creatively allowing stories to unfold as if the stories and scripts and scenarios and therapy had been there all the time, just waiting, as it were, for us to unfold them. When I write ‘At sunrise the herd of buffalo on the slopes started to move through the tall khaki-coloured grass and the light glinted on their horns,’ your image of that will be different to mine and not because I was there and saw what I now share with you, but because we’re all magical creatures who so readily make pictures in the mind.” (Vol 7 2003, p 9)
“Here are the opening lines of two of my stories that may never be movies. One of them is true.
“It was early morning on the fortieth birthday of the fado singer Elvira Tomes. She wore an old cotton robe and stood alone next to the north-facing window of the big room where she and Jules had lived during the war. Daybreak was always her favourite time in Mozambique because the air was cool and fresh. She sipped black coffee hoping for a clear day so she could paint and she watched the light strengthen on the long misted Bay. As the light grew stronger sounds from the street and the markets and the quayside grew louder. Soon she distinguished dark-hulled freighters swinging at anchor and could see some of their flags moving a little in the small breeze coming down Delagoa Bay.” (Lourenço Marques) (Vol 7 2003, p 9-10)
“Most of the hotels were closed for the autumn but were scheduled to reopen in December for the winter season. In early November many of the trees remained leafed and the forests were a rich red and gold. There were still some grapes hanging on vines trained on the sunny walls of the houses and above the tree line there was some early snow. On a small island there was a church with an onion-shaped top to its spire and the high mountains were reflected in the still waters of Lake Bled. A man and a woman sat outside on the timber balcony and below them two army officers had a table brought out on the terrace and ate their lunch in the sunshine. The sun shining through autumn leaves made dappled patterns on the terrace. Later the man and the woman joined the officers for drinks: dark red wine diluted with splashes from a soda siphon.” (Slovenia) (Vol 7 2003, p 10)
“Like many of my ancestors I enjoy sitting in my garden and seeing what there is to be seen. Some of that is in the so-called outer zone and some of what can be seen is in the middle zone. Sometimes I write or make notes or fantasize about the wildlife and the natural world and I know that actual text and fictional narratives and even biographical notes in historical documents are all merely words yet they can all also inspire imagery, if you see what I mean.” (Vol 7 2003, p 10)
A point I’m trying to make is that all writing surely requires that the imagination be engaged. I’ve seen many fine examples of writing, including manuscripts of novels in museums and two are truly memorable. In 1954 at Sounion a bus ride from Athens, there were the remains of a column, lapped by the ocean, and chiseled darkly into the stone was the inelegant but artistic word BYRON. The other writing, also a chiseled inscription, was made long before Lord Byron’s autograph and is also more artistic: in 1956 at Bisitoun in Iran, I climbed steep rock to see where Darius I (The Great) (558-486 BC) had cut, (or probably had an artist/chiseler do his bidding), The mighty Darius passed this way, or words to that effect. Much more had been inscribed because the message was also an account of his reign.
Writers write because they cannot help but write and when Byron or Darius paused and looked hopefully to the skies, we can be sure they each pondered what to write in stone. We can also be sure that when they did that they also would have visualized the finished work by imagining how it would look when finished.
Autumn at Earthrise continues. The weather is damper now and there are nuisance showers, yet there are also sunny breaks. Damp soil makes for easy weeding and although stonewall building is a muddy job in wet weather the stones also get washed by rain.
Last words on this May afternoon from the late John Jerome:
Here and there in the woods I come across such beautiful rocks, covered with such soft green mosses that they make me want to lay my face against them (Jerome, 1989, p 143).
Best from Don.
References
Diespecker, Don (2004). Surfing the Absolute. The International Journal of Transpersonal Studies 23, 125-128 (contains references to Jerome).
Diespecker, Don (2004). Lourenço Marques. In: The Agreement. Phillip ACT, Australia: Homosapien Books, 112.
Jerome, John. (1989). Stone work, Reflections on serious play and other aspects of country life. New York: Viking Penguin.
